O isn’t my body when we kiss
a mirror’s pressing murmuring
and a flaming begging bid,
and even if I ask if you will
come back to collect and sip
the dew you’ve left on my lips
once it’s aged to be a wine?
Though I think you will be back
to find where else but over me,
finer and wispier than wraith
a splendid umbra beats,
so that petals of the light
obey dance’s will—
to unlock more of kiss?
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